Out of the Dark

by Justine Davis

  Tory understood, not that it mattered. She didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. That price was so far out of their reach right now it might as well have been a million an hour. They’d leased some new land last year, so they could run a few head of their own livestock for training purposes, and the cost of the land and the cattle had them so strapped they barely made expenses each month. It would pay off eventually, but she knew it was going to be in the long, long run.

  She got to her feet. Bannister rose, too, whether from innate good manners or a desire to hasten her departure, she didn’t know. She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets. The letter buckled beneath her fingers, and she barely resisted the urge to crumple it. This had been a wasted trip, a pointless effort. She was about to say a rather inept goodbye when a question, spoken in that low, gravelly voice, stopped her.

  “If Sheila didn’t know what you wanted, why did she send you to me?”

  “I...” She couldn’t see any way out of it. “I asked for you.”

  That dark brow lifted again, not in surprise but more as if he’d had a suspicion confirmed.

  “I...heard your name somewhere, and that you knew about horses, from when you were rodeoing,” she said quickly, giving him enough of the truth to hope that he’d let it drop. She turned to go. She heard an odd sound, half sigh, half groan. Then he stopped her dead for the second time.

  “How is Hobie?”

  She whirled, startled, her eyes wide. Bannister merely shrugged, but the shadow in his eyes had been replaced with something infinitely softer. To his credit, he didn’t dissemble.

  “I thought of him the minute I heard your name,” he said quietly. “And I knew the minute I saw your eyes. You’re Victoria.”

  It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t bother to answer—he obviously already knew he was right. She sank slowly back down into the chair. Her eyes had given her away to this man, those eyes that were that odd shade of blue-green, and the only feature she was proud of, no doubt because they looked exactly like her beloved uncle’s.

  Bannister was just looking at her, as if waiting for her to speak. She couldn’t find any words. There was no point in keeping Hobie’s letter from him any longer. She pulled it out, grabbing the piece of notepaper as it came out, too. She wadded it up with one hand as she held the letter in the other. She still couldn’t bring herself to give the envelope to him.

  “You were really going to leave without telling me, weren’t you?”

  A little numbly, she nodded. Her fingers curled around the letter.

  “Why?”

  She didn’t think she could even begin to explain.

  “Why, Ms. Flynn? You’re Hobie’s niece. He must have sent you here, must have told you about me.”

  He didn’t tell me what you looked like, she wanted to exclaim. He didn’t tell me you were one of those damned Texans with an unfair share of good looks and oozing with charm. Just like my father.

  She shivered slightly and told herself it was because, even with the big desk in between them, he seemed to be towering over her. He never moved, but she felt pressured, anyway. It made her angry and, with a sharp movement, she tossed the wadded up note into the big wastebasket, already half-full of a discarded computer printout.

  “Why weren’t you going to tell me?” he repeated even more insistently for a third time.

  “Because I don’t trust you,” she blurted out. Her cheeks flamed the moment the words escaped.

  He stared at her for a moment. She lowered her gaze, horribly embarrassed. God, what if he, as any man would, asked her to explain what the hell she meant by that? What could she say? That she didn’t trust him because he was too damned good-looking?

  He sat down once more in the big desk chair.

  “Wise woman,” he said.

  Startled anew, her glance flicked to his face. His eyes were shadowed once more, darker even than before. And there wasn’t a trace of humor in his expression. As far as she could tell, he’d meant the words quite literally.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I bring more trouble than you want to deal with, so you stick to that, Victoria Flynn. Don’t ever trust me. You’ll be safer.”

  Chapter 2

  Tory stared at him, and somewhere beneath her discomfiture stirred the knowledge that she had never seen so much loathing in anyone’s eyes. And that it was directed entirely at himself.

  “I’m Tory,” she said suddenly, unable to bear that look any longer.

  He blinked, the hardened expression wavering for an instant. “What?”

  “Tory. No one calls me Victoria.” Not anymore, she added silently. Yet another way she had cut all ties to the past, and the man who had always called her by her full name.

  “Oh.”

  He seemed taken aback by her sudden softening. He let out a breath, a long, drawn out exhalation. And Tory, in spite of her decision not to, found herself wanting to ask again for his help. Would he react differently now, now that he knew who she was?

  “We really do need help, Mr. Bannister. Uncle Hobie said you’re the best. He wouldn’t—”

  “No.”

  That cold, masklike expression was back, looking even more impenetrable than before. Tory just looked at him for a long, silent moment. There wasn’t a trace of pain in his voice or in his face, so she didn’t know where she was getting the idea that beneath that mask was a man in agony. It was ridiculous anyway, that idea. Charming cowboys like this never felt anything that strongly. Her father certainly hadn’t. And he’d been the most charming of all. And he’d also taught her the painful lesson that the more charm on the surface, the less substance there was underneath.

  He seemed to think better of his peremptory response, and elaborated once more.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Flynn. I realize Hobie didn’t know I’d... changed my line of work. I’m sorry I can’t help you. But someone else—”

  “No,” she interrupted hastily, images of their already-drained checkbook forming in her head, “that’s not necessary. We’ll think of something.”

  His dark brows lowered. “You came all this way, you clearly need help—”

  “It’s all right,” she said, cutting him off again. She tried desperately to think of something else to say. She could hardly tell him they’d hoped he would help for nothing, because of his old friendship with Hobie. Or if not that, out of a sense of obligation to Hobie. In fact, Hobie had been sure of it.

  “He never had much in the way of family,” Hobie had said. “So I kinda adopted him when he was a kid on the circuit. You just give him this to read, honey, and he’ll come. He’s a man who understands about friends in need.”

  But Hobie was wrong. People changed, and he hadn’t seen this man in too long a time. One look at Cole Bannister now told her he didn’t understand a thing about people in need. She’d never met a cooler, more self-possessed man in her life. Except maybe her father. But where her father had never turned off the charm—except with his family—Bannister was apparently selective in whom he chose to turn it on for. She didn’t know which was worse.

  “I’m sure we can find somebody to look into this for you.” Then, in an odd tone that made Tory feel like he was testing her somehow, he added, “I’ll make sure you get the corporate rate. It’s a bit lower.”

  “Not low enough,” she muttered.

  His eyes narrowed, making him look again like a man who had just had what he’d already suspected confirmed. Whatever that test had been, she thought, she’d apparently failed. His gaze shifted to her hand, where the letter was now crushed beneath her fingers.

  “Why don’t you quit torturing that letter and give it to me?”

  Her breath caught, her eyes widened.

  “It’s from Hobie, isn’t it?”

  “I... How did you know?”

  “You’ve been fiddling with it like a set of worry beads. And I know Hobie wouldn’t send you here alone without ammunition.”

  Bannister’s voice
had taken on a wry tone that told her volumes about how well this man knew her uncle. She smothered a sigh and smoothed out the creases her fingers had put in the letter. Then she held it out to him.

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to take it. When he did at last, he made no move to open it. He stared at the writing on the envelope. Then he shifted his unreadable gaze back to her face.

  “Why didn’t he come himself?”

  “He’s...been sick.”

  Something flickered in that steady gaze, then, something sharp and tense. Worry, she realized suddenly. He was worried about Hobie. She felt a flood of relief; he was Hobie’s friend, and she’d been right to give him the letter.

  “He’s going to get well,” she said quickly, positively. “It’s just that he had a bad case of pneumonia about six months ago, and he hasn’t gotten his strength back, yet.”

  He seemed to relax, and returned his gaze to the envelope. But he didn’t open it.

  “Do you want me to leave?” He looked up sharply, as if startled. She nodded at the letter. “So you can read it in private?”

  His forehead creased. “You don’t know what it says?”

  She shook her head. “Uncle Hobie just told me to give it to you.”

  He turned the envelope over and studied the back. When she realized what he was doing, she felt like he’d reached out and slapped her.

  “You don’t need to check the flap,” she snapped out. “I don’t read other people’s mail, Mr. Bannister.”

  He looked up. To her amazement, a tinge of color stained his chiseled cheekbones.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Force of habit.”

  He lowered his gaze to the envelope, stared at it for a long moment, then finally moved to open it. His fingers were long, Tory noticed as he unfolded the letter, tapered yet strongly masculine, and his nails were neatly, bluntly trimmed. Yet his hands were used—scarred here, calloused there. Like Hobie’s hands, marked from years of ropes, reins and hard work. An odd thing to notice, she supposed—

  She heard an odd sound, that half sigh, half groan again. Her gaze shot to his face. His eyes were closed, and for a split second she saw such pain in his expression that she found herself holding her breath. But then it was gone, so swiftly she thought she must have misinterpreted the look—no one could turn off such pain so quickly. It was just a false impression she couldn’t shake, this idea that he was in such misery.

  “I—” His voice sounded oddly taut, and he broke off abruptly, then coughed, as if her perception wasn’t so far wrong after all. But again, when he went on, it seemed as if she’d imagined it; his voice was cool and even.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Ms. Flynn. But I don’t do what you need done, anymore.”

  So Hobie really had been wrong. Whoever or whatever this man had once been to him, he wasn’t any longer. She sighed inwardly; she hated the thought of Hobie being let down. He had been disappointed too often in life.

  “I’ll...help you, though. I’ll find someone who can handle this, and I’ll take care of the cost—”

  “No, thank you.” Her uncle might call in a favor, but he would never take charity. “Hobie would never... He wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would.” Bannister’s voice was flat, inflectionless.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She stood up. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said politely. She held out her hand, and after a long, silent moment, he took it. Although it lacked the used, rough skin of Hobie’s, his hand was strong. And warm. And surprisingly gentle. None of which explained the odd little sensation that raced along her skin as his fingers grasped hers.

  She almost jerked her hand back, barely managing to make the movement merely quick instead of panicked. Her gaze flicked to his face, hoping he hadn’t noticed. For a split second he looked as startled as she had felt. And then, as solidly as if it had been a physical thing, a wall seemed to come down between them.

  “I’m sorry your trip was wasted,” he said stiffly. “Good afternoon, Ms. Flynn.”

  She nodded and turned away. She was at the door when she heard the sound of paper being crumpled. She didn’t look back. If Cole Bannister was throwing Hobie’s letter away, she didn’t want to see it. She closed the door behind her, and wondered how she was going to tell her uncle that his old friend wasn’t the man he’d thought he was, at all.

  * * *

  The room was quiet and dark, although it was nearly dawn. Cole sat on his battered sofa, his sock-clad feet up on the corner of the old trunk that served as a coffee table in his small rented half of a duplex, his eyes gazing fixedly at nothing. It was a technique he’d perfected long ago—this floating, this drifting in the dark, thinking about nothing.

  But tonight he was having trouble. Not the usual trouble, it wasn’t the old, painfully familiar images that threatened his calm tonight, no ghosts, no visions of blood and echoes of screams. Tonight it was simply the memory of a pair of blue-green eyes that flitted around the edges of his consciousness, tapping gently but persistently, not demanding entry but wearing him down like the wind wore stone down to desert sands.

  Hobie Flynn’s eyes. All the old jokes, come to life in the face of his niece. How often had they teased the man about his woman-beautiful eyes—that deep, startling turquoise color, and the thick, soft lashes, so unexpected in the weathered, scarred face? They’d been merciless, that rowdy bunch of young rodeo tramps. And Hobie had merely grinned, saying the good Lord had simply been making up for the odd arrangement of the rest of his features. That had generally shut them all up. They all knew that Hobie Flynn’s face and wiry body bore scars that carried every one of their names. There were few of them who didn’t owe him. Some more than others.

  Well, there was nothing odd about the arrangement of Tory Flynn’s features. Her chin was a little stubborn looking, and her nose had a sassy tilt to it, but her lips were soft and full, her jaw delicate and feminine in line. He didn’t know where the streaky, sandy hair had come from—he’d never met Hobie’s brother, the girl’s father, and Hobie’s was a bland brown—but those eyes were Hobie’s, and as striking in a female face as they had always told Hobie they would be.

  Not to mention the rest of her, even clad as she was. She clearly hadn’t dressed up for this meeting. Or maybe she had, he amended, remembering her tension about money. Maybe the clean but well-worn jeans and the battered boots were the best she had. The shirt had been newer, a bright turquoise-and-white Western pattern that had made those eyes even more vivid, and had hugged feminine curves as sweetly as the jeans had.

  Girl, he thought suddenly, was not the word. Victoria Flynn was all woman.

  You’re a real class act, Bannister, he thought grimly. She’s Hobie’s niece, for God’s sake. For that alone she deserves a hell of a lot better than having you assess her body parts like she was a prize filly you’re looking to buy, or some bar pickup you’re planning to take home. Especially you. And for more reasons than what you owe Hobie.

  Not to mention that she looked exhausted, physically and emotionally. Those dark circles and weary eyes were not simply the product of the lack of sleep that went with a long drive. She’d been under a strain for a long time now, and it showed. He recognized the signs, he’d confronted them too often in his own mirror not to.

  And that, he told himself, was proof that it was a damn good thing he was strictly flying a desk now. It would be a major mistake to make an exception, even for Hobie. This case had all the earmarks of another Bannister disaster—a woman, a man she loved, and, if she was right, somebody else who was playing very dirty. All the elements he had such a knack for juggling into tragedy.

  He heard a faint scrabbling, the distinctive sound of claws tugging on fabric. A rangy gray shape, looking like a lighter piece of the darkness, moved toward him soundlessly across the cushions of the couch.

  There was that, too, he thought. If he left, who would feed Rocky?

  He nearly laughe
d out loud.

  God, you’ve reached a pretty pass, he told himself scathingly, when you start using this mangy, raggedy-eared cat that’s not even yours for an excuse.

  The pale, smoky-colored cat stopped at his own invisible boundary; the next sofa cushion was close enough, sharing the same cushion was entirely too intimate for his independent nature. He’d been on Cole’s doorstep one night, as if waiting for his arrival, with an air of regal condescension. Cole’s dislike for cats in general had been muted by the animal’s ripped, bloody ear, and he’d left it alone instead of chasing it off as he usually would have done. For a couple of weeks it hung around, never begging, or intruding, but just there. One day he had surrendered to an impulse he’d regretted ever since; while stopping in at a local convenience store for a newspaper and a cup of coffee, he’d bought a can of cat food. And when he’d arrived home, he had been treated to a condescending look of congratulations that he had finally figured it out.

  “You got along just fine on your own before, you can damn well do it again,” he muttered to the cat as he leaned over and switched on a lamp. Rocky blinked once, unimpressed. And apparently unfrightened by the threat.

  “Go find somebody else’s snakeskin boots to claw on,” he said, still disgusted that he’d actually taken to pulling the boots off before he ever got into the house because of the silent—and sneaky—animal’s damaging aversion to the expensive footwear. He’d finally stopped clawing at them while Cole was in them, but abandoned they were fair game.

  “Fine thing when a man can’t even wear his own boots into his own house.”

  The cat yawned widely.

  “I keep telling you, I don’t even like cats.”

  The tip of the raccoonlike tail, that went so perfectly with the bandit-masked face, twitched.

  “Why the hell did you pick here, anyway? Couldn’t you go hang around Mrs. Waldon’s or something?”

  The cat made a tiny, expressive, sniffing sound. And Cole had to admit, the idea of battered, rough-and-tumble Rocky cavorting with his landlady’s disdainful, temperamental Siamese made for an unlikely picture. And it almost made him smile.